


Historical Fiction

by keeponshouting



Series: Baby, This is Love [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:53:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeponshouting/pseuds/keeponshouting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the middle of spring break and Enjolras can't sleep and what, exactly, is one supposed to do with a Grantaire standing under one's window in the pouring rain?</p><p>(High School flashback for The Simplest Things.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Historical Fiction

**Author's Note:**

> So, somewhere in Enjolras's introspection in The Simplest Things, I mentioned something about Grantaire showing up at his window. Then this happened. It mostly gets relationship tags because I like to think it's pretty obvious. At least from Grantaire's side of things. Also, man, R is E's personal troll.

Grantaire hates the sensation of rain drops transferring to skin from hair, rolling down his neck, past his collar, sticking his already soaked and clinging t-shirt to his spine. It's uncomfortable and sets him shivering  and it makes his situation just that much more frustrating. Why had he thought that leaving Jehan's house was even a remotely good idea?

With the mistake already made and rain thundering on the hood of his car, he supposes it doesn't really make much difference. Whose house is the closest is all that matters now. Except he can't even see the nearest road sign through this storm.

With a sigh, he turns the key one more time, fingers crossed for a miracle. When a clicking noise is all that happens, he reaches into the back seat instead. There are two options, really: sleep in his car or walk to the corner and figure out where he's going from there. Considering the current temperature and the fact that he's already courting pneumonia after trying to get his engine to turn over, he just pulls on his driest jacket, stuffs some relatively clean clothes into his duffle, hitches the strap over one shoulder, and grabs his keys before he throws himself out the door.

The first corner he comes to is, luckily, a tremendously familiar one, if not the most convenient, and he turns in his chosen direction with a sense of conviction.

If he had a cell phone, he would call ahead. The statement is a part of his standard apology on nights like these and he knows that most of his friends don't care but, well, he can't help it. He feels like they should all hold it against him, the way he so often shows up unannounced, how he huddles into their spare spaces and makes a mess everywhere he goes. Most of their parents don't like him, think he's a bum, nothing but trouble, but somehow he always finds somewhere to sleep anyway and he wishes he knew how to make taking care of his sorry ass worth it.

When he rounds another corner and hops the neighborhood fence, his sense of self-worth isn't assisted by his feet slipping out from under him. So great. Now he's soaking wet, courting pneumonia, and he's covered in mud.

With a scowl, he trudges into a halfhearted jog as the rain starts coming down even harder.

 

It’s just past midnight, Wednesday, or technically Thursday now, the week of spring break, and Enjolras is sitting on his bed, only half watching whatever happens to be playing on the History Channel as he prods at the rough draft of a paper that isn’t due until a week from Friday.  He’s thought about sleeping but his attempts thus far have been less than successful and the storm has killed the internet for half of his friends so what else is there to do?  For the first time in a long time, he finds himself at a loss.  No sleep, no chat, no focus.

And that’s when something strikes his window.

At first he’s fairly certain that it was something blown out of a tree.  His house is situated at an off angle somewhere between Combeferre’s and Courfeyrac’s in one of those neighborhoods where they try to make the size and expense of the house worth the lack of actual privacy by sticking them back into their own, little copses.  Every time the wind picks up, bits of abandoned bird nests and broken branches batter the building.

The second strike makes him realize that the wind tonight is coming from the opposite direction.

When he moves over to his window, leaning across the stacks of books and papers that litter his desk, he’s not really sure what he’s looking for.  It’s probably the squirrels that took residence in the tree line last summer, in which case there’s nothing to be done about it.  They’re annoying sometimes, yes, but he’s taken to subtly enticing them to stay because his mother calls them pests and his father is aggravated by the fact that something about their property seems to make it impossible to get rid of them.  They feel approximately the same way about birds but birds are less likely to nest in their attic.  At one point, his father even asked the neighborhood landscaper to do something about the “rodent problem” but, well, the landscaper also happens to be Bahorel’s dad so a quick chat with Enjolras had inevitably toppled the situation in the squirrels’ favor and, seeing as the squirrels _weren’t_ nesting in the attic (yet), there wasn’t really anyone else to call.

What he does find outside, stood in the rain and looking none too pleased by the situation, is in no way, shape, or form a squirrel.  Sometimes he might debate the accuracy of labeling it a pest but that is neither here nor there.  Tonight it’s mainly just to be labeled a surprise.

The figure below glances up, squinting through the rain, and Enjolras can barely make out a grimace as Grantaire raises his hand in a halfhearted wave.

He’s certain that the look on his own face is nothing short of incredulous, if the boy below can even see it, but he motions his unexpected visitor toward the back porch and shoves himself away from his desk with a sigh.  This isn’t the first time Grantaire has shown up in his backyard and he sincerely doubts that it’ll be the last but why on a night like tonight?  Surely someone else would have been closer or more convenient.

Not that it makes any difference, as he slips through the hallway, ducking into his bathroom for a towel.  He knows what actually makes his house most convenient:  getting in and out without having to worry about disrupting his parents.  The master suite is in the far front corner of the house while Enjolras has claimed the bedroom at the complete opposite end.  It’s handy for many reasons, not the least of which being his ability to live in their house without having to ever see them 75% of the time.  As long as he keeps his friends and their “antics” out of the front rooms and no police start knocking on their door, his parents let him take over the upstairs game room for whatever he pleases.  They’ve even had a door installed at the base of the back stair.  It’s a tense but amenable agreement.

When he makes his way through the kitchen to unlock the back door, he finds Grantaire standing on the porch, barefoot and holding his boots in one hand.  The older boy is currently staring at his own toes and looks a bit as if he’s just climbed out of a lake.  He’s soaked to the bone under his leather jacket, which mostly makes Enjolras wonder why he even bothered with the thing, and his hair is trying valiantly to reacquire any measure of curl as it begins the slow process of draining.

Enjolras snatches the shoes and throws the towel at him, leaving his now free hand out to take Grantaire’s bag.  “Straight to the bathroom.”

R just sighs as he swings his duffle into the extended hand and sets to toweling off enough to not go skidding across the kitchen floor.

Five minutes later, Enjolras makes his way back upstairs, content that there are no signs left for his parents to find of his taking in a wet and muddied vagabond in the wee hours of the morning.  Then it’s into his bathroom, where Grantaire’s silhouette is visible through the steamed and frosted glass of the shower door.  Enjolras just drops his guest’s duffle to rifle through its contents.  What he finds are various books and art supplies that have been carefully wrapped in old grocery bags to keep them dry amongst wads of fabric that are barely any less waterlogged at this point than what’s been left in a pile on the floor.

“Great,” he mutters.  Then he stuffs all of the clothes back into the bag, stacks the bundles of plastic and their contents on the counter, and drags himself up into a stretch.  He’s had to run the tumble dryer in the middle of the night before.  No big deal.  The problem is going to be finding R some dry clothes.  Maybe there are some pajamas in the laundry room.

So it’s back out to the hall and around the corner and, sure enough, once he’s thrown everything in to dry, he manages to dig a pair of bottoms and a t-shirt out of the stacks the housekeeper had folded that afternoon.  He’s never been so glad that she’s absolutely terrible at listening to him when he demands to take care of his own laundry.  Still, this is the third time she’s snuck into his room to steal and wash his clothes over the span of this break.  He’s going to have to talk to her about that.  Unlike his parents, he is, in fact, enough of a responsible adult to take care of himself.

When he sticks his head back into the bathroom, the water is off and he can hear the shuffling of wet feet stepping out onto the bath mat.  He keeps his eyes down out of courtesy and sets the clean clothes on the opposite side of the sink from R’s art supplies, clearing his throat to draw attention to them before he ducks back out again.  Back in his room, he moves his computer and the notes for his paper over to his desk and tosses himself into his chair to check the status of the internet.

 

_Enjolras has entered The Musain_

**Jehan:** oh hi!

 **Enjolras:** I see your power is back on.

 **Jehan:** for now.  what are you doing awake?

 **Enjolras:** I could ask the same of you.

 **Jehan:** I asked first.

 **Joly:** There was an accident at the corner.  It’s a bit difficult to sleep through the commotion.

 **Jehan:** well fine.  what joly said.

 **Enjolras:** Ah.  I was just having trouble sleeping and Grantaire showed up.

 **Jehan:** OH oh is he all right?  he was here earlier but then he left and then the storm started.

 **Enjolras:** He seems fine, aside from being a drowned rat.

 **Jehan:** he’s not a rat.  he’s more like a puppy.

 **Joly:** He’s going to have pneumonia.

 **Jehan:** oh hush!  I already feel bad for letting him leave.  he’s not allowed to get sick because of it.

 **Enjolras:** If it wasn’t raining when he left and I’m assuming that he was in his car, then it wouldn’t exactly be your fault.

 **Jehan:** that’s not the point. :(

 

When the door creaks in time with the sound of a soft knocking, Enjolras looks back over his shoulder and motions for Grantaire to come in.  There’s a short pause before he actually does.  Then there’s an R perched on the foot of his bed, shoulders slightly hunched and hair starting to dry into a wild mess atop his head.  The plastic bag bundles, dampness carefully removed from their outsides, are left to rest on the floor by his feet.

 

 **Enjolras:** He’s fine, Jehan.  Besides, if he does get sick, it’s my fault now.

 **Jehan:** enjolras that doesn’t even make sense.

 **Jehan:** that makes the complete opposite of sense.

 **Enjolras:** It makes perfect sense to me.  My responsibility, my fault.

 **Joly:** You’re taking responsibility for Grantaire?

 **Jehan:** maybe you’re the one we should be worried about getting sick.

 **Enjolras:** Goodnight, both of you.

 **Jehan:** goodnight I guess?

 **Jehan:** TELL R GOODNIGHT AND I’M SORRY

_Enjolras has left The Musain_

“Jehan’s freaking out about letting me leave, isn’t he?”

Slightly startled to actually hear his guest speak, Enjolras turns in his chair to find the older boy absently staring at whatever is currently on the television.  It appears to be something about France.  Mostly having a TV in his room is just a constant source of background noise so Enjolras never checks.

“Joly thinks you’re going to catch pneumonia.”

Grantaire sniffs with a shrug.  “Probably am.  Have.  Whatever.  Maybe I’ll go to a doctor so he doesn’t start thinking I’ve got the death rattle.”

Enjolras hums, eyeing R from under arched brows.

The boy on the bed just rubs a knuckle at his nose as they both listen to the droning history lesson that tells them of students and refugees and the catalyst for rebellion.

“Don’t you already know all of this bullshit?”  It’s R’s favorite way to break the silence, of course, cracking on Enjolras and, in this case, his choices of study, and it comes out quite suddenly but catches neither of them by surprise.  Not that the cynic himself doesn’t have all of the information memorized as well.  In fact, his memory for facts and details is one of the things about him which Enjolras finds most tolerable, sometimes even fascinating.

Not that Enjolras would ever tell him that.

“Late night and early morning programming tend to be a loop.  Mid-week is primarily documentaries.”

“Really?  I’ll keep that in mind if I’ve ever got nothing better to do than watch the History Channel all night.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes as he pushes himself out of his chair and moves to sit with his back against the headboard.  “What would you prefer?  Terrible horror movies like you watch with Bahorel and Feuilly?”

“That’d be a start.”  After a moment, Grantaire flops backward, damp curls spread out like a dark halo.  “And they’re not all terrible, you know.”

The dubious look that receives earns a grin, the first even vaguely cheerful expression they’ve exchanged so far this evening.

“Well, all right,” R concedes after a moment, “most of them are pretty bad but that’s just the genre these days.  Sometimes you can catch a really good one, though, and the bad ones are usually pretty good for their own reasons.”

Enjolras shakes his head but the one corner of his mouth twitches upward.  “Historical fact can be rather more horrific than fiction."

The expression he gets at that almost looks serious, if it weren’t so obviously forced.  “You say that almost as if I’m not well aware.”

“Sometimes you act as if you’re not.”

“Says the guy who watches all of these documentaries and yet still believes that he can change the world.”

Any hint of a smile that has been trying to find its way to Enjolras’s face gives up at that without a single bit of fight.

But Grantaire just blinks, innocently owlish and upside down, before sitting up and sliding down to the floor.  “Next,” he says, over the rustle of plastic bags, “you say something about learning from the mistakes of others and then you go off into your idealistic rambling.”  He pauses there to glance back over top the mattress, his eyes sparkling and entirely unapologetic.  “That or you kick me out.”

Eyebrows furrowed and mouth set in a frown, Enjolras contemplates, for a spare moment, the thought of doing exactly that.  Ultimately, however, he simply ends up shaking his head again and turning his eyes back to the television.  In his periphery, something that might be relief flashes across R’s face before all that can be seen is dark hair, bowed low to the sound of plastic bags being opened and various items being brought out.  Enjolras just sinks lower into his pillows and watches more than listens to the program.

He’s not sure when he dozes off.  In his drowsiness, he vaguely recalls that the June Rebellion has ended and something else has begun and he is only very passingly aware of the fact that, at some point, Grantaire has moved from the floor to sit in the desk chair, which is turned so that the arches of his feet are resting against the edge of the mattress, knees pulled up for a makeshift easel.  There is a smudge of charcoal across the bridge of the artist’s nose and another down near the corner of his mouth and Enjolras is fairly certain that he attempts to inform the other boy of as much and is perhaps just as certain that the only response that garners is a faint grin and another smudge being left, purposefully, across the opposite cheek.  When he finally wakes up, fully and properly, though, the chair is empty save for a sheet of paper.

The drawing picks up the mid-morning light in a mass of dark lines, deep shadows, and the occasional splashes of bright color.  From where he sits up against his headboard, his angle of vision slightly off, it makes little to no sense at all.  Upon closer inspection, however, it is a near perfect depiction of himself, sleeping, recreated in broad strokes of black and blurring shades of grey.  Those previously noted bits of color are, in fact, the crisp, red folds of his comforter, blocks of blue in the place of various pillows, a firework bright array of golden curls.

For a moment, Enjolras finds himself wondering if (worrying that?) Grantaire may have snuck out while he was sleeping.  Taking responsibility for him had just been a joke but, to be entirely honest, someone has to be responsible for the cynic and it is generally quite clear that, most of the time, R is not the best candidate for keeping his own best interests in mind.  For as selfish as some of his philosophies and decisions might seem – for as selfish as they may have truly been before – even Enjolras is not single-minded enough not to have entirely missed that the Grantaire who had first allowed himself to be dragged along to one of their meetings was not quite the same Grantaire who had shown up in the rain under his window.  That Grantaire never would have allowed himself to be seen drawing while outside of class; he most certainly would not have removed that drawing from his sketchbook and intentionally left it somewhere for someone else to find.  Combining that thought with the idea of R potentially slipping into the sunrise without a word—

The odd mixture of almost astonishingly genuine concern and something he tries very hard not to identify as rising guilt makes Enjolras feel slightly queasy.  Why had Grantaire even come to his house anyway?  With the ever reasonable and accommodating Combeferre to one side and Courfeyrac and Marius beginning the early development of a bachelor pad to the other, why on earth would anyone in their right mind walk straight down the middle?  Never mind that they could so easily move around without alerting his parents to the fact that there was an extra body in their house.  Courf in particular had been known to have visitors arriving at all hours since they were children and his parents had never particularly cared as long as he kept himself out of trouble or at least didn’t bring any of that trouble back home.

And that is where his thoughts are caught when his television screams.

It hadn’t even registered before that there were voices in the background.  He’s so used to falling asleep with his History Channel white noise still playing that he hadn’t even thought twice.  Now, however, he is well aware of the fact that what is playing across the room is no longer a series of documentaries but rather a dwindling bunch of co-eds running half-naked through a theme park with an axe-wielding murderer on their trail.  After the initial shock of it, Enjolras very nearly has to laugh.

Instead, once his heart has finished racing, he finds a dark-haired mass of limbs sprawled across one of the game room sofas and unceremoniously yanks at a tangle of sheets – the whole mess ending with a thud and a string of curses as Grantaire hits the floor, all ass and elbows.


End file.
